


How to Take a Fall

by messier51



Series: One-shots [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hand-To-Hand Combat, POV Castiel, Training, blood mention, canon divergent at 8.23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier51/pseuds/messier51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas adjusts to his lack of grace through hand-to-hand combat training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://messier51.tumblr.com/post/61186674169/the-human-bodyhis-human-body-now-he-reminds).
> 
> (This one-shot has two parts. Oops.)

The human body– _his_ human body now, he reminds himself–is not out of shape. The muscles are a little tired after the workout, but that’s understandable given human anatomy.

But he’d been slow, and awkward. Sam and Dean had suggested some combat training, and he’d  _thought_ … well it didn’t really matter.

But it did.

And that was the thing–the warm up had been _fine_. Great even! Everything functions within the proper parameters. But still, operating an organic mechanism with ligaments and tendons is different than moving it with whim and aggression.

The first hit (and first bloody nose) was a surprise to both Cas and Dean. (Not to mention Sam’s face as he pretended disinterest in the sparring match.) But neither of them really paused to pay it mind; first hits are important in a real fight, not practice. The second blow: solar plexus and a lack of air, the third: a head lock on the floor and almost blacking out before Dean stopped to explain to Cas the finer details of something called ‘tapping out’. A worried look Dean shared with Sam before resetting for the next bout.

He watches carefully this time, but by the time he comprehends Dean’s fist’s trajectory it’s connecting with kidney, and the other is out of his field of view. The blow sends him stumbling over his own feet face first into the floor. Get up; try again.

Focus. Dean's feet are an obvious tell; Cas _knows_ this. It doesn’t stop the consequent headlock; or the second nosebleed. Cas gets a lucky hit in and is praised for it but knows it for the wild hit it is. In a fight that’s still good, but that doesn't make it a tool one can survive on.

Sam is different to train with–longer and a little slower, but meaner and wilder in each strike. Interestingly between the two brothers, he is the harder to predict. Not that anticipation helps much, most blows fall again unopposed. The others leave large welts on Cas’ forearms and shins. Skin and blood vessels unused to abuse turn red in anticipation of their later purple, green, and yellow hues.

He only passes out once before remembering what Dean said about tapping out.

* * *

 

Afterwards, when Dean sits down and looks at him, first with confused eyes and then just worried ones, Cas says something about how kinetic energy is a poor substitute for grace.

Dean frowns, then shrugs.

“That’s what next time’s for,” he says. It's a meaningless sort of phrase.

After thinking too hard for just a bit too long Cas realizes that that’s part of being human too. He resolves to forget the ease of grace-fueled-combat for what skills this vessel still seems to manage. Maybe it will take him more than one “next time” but he’s certain it can be done.

His private goal for the first “next time”: one less look of consternation from a friendly face. And if he tells himself the truth, one more look of pride, trust or contentment would work too. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://messier51.tumblr.com/post/61324373096/sequel-to-this-if-its-possible-the-second).

If it’s possible, the second time they cajole Cas into fighting practice (he only dissented a bit at first; he _knows_ he hasn’t improved enough since a few days ago) he ends up with more bruises and more sore muscles than the first time.

He is almost able to convince himself that it’s all well-earned.

The first few rounds went the same as before. See fist? Feel fist. See give in weight change? Caught by grapple. Heels are fucking boney. But instead of resigning quietly, Cas asks for, and receives with only a small bit of trepidation, more.

He thinks at first it must be foolish pride, wanting to go more. Maybe getting beaten a few more times will push the lesson home–without his grace he is, utterly, powerless.

The thought leaves him flat-footed, and a minute later he is coming-to with two faces worriedly arguing about how much is too much. Cas growls and says the magic word.

“Again.”

He’s pretty sure Dean tried to argue with him before storming out of the room, but he wasn’t actually paying attention. And his ears are still ringing. Sam has a contemplative look on his face when he stands up and, for a minute he just looks at Cas.

Whatever decision Sam comes to is not “practice more with Cas” though because his first combination lands three hits before Cas even realizes they’ve started. He’s too tired to think and leaves all thought of injury for a later discussion with ~~the vessel~~ his body. The only thing he has enough willpower to concentrate on right now is 1) continuing the fight and 2) breathing. In. Out.

When he manages to dodge Sam’s first attack it’s enough to startle him, and the second one lands–knee to the solar plexus. Cas barely feels it before resetting. Is he breathing a little harder now? Doesn’t matter, the air is going where it needs to go. In; out.

Cas successfully avoids Sam’s reach for two or three more attacks before meeting Sam halfway on the third, landing a few knuckles in Sam’s eye socket just as he feels the wind knocked out of him. Out.

* * *

In. 

He doesn’t get up (although Sam warns him of the hazards that come with not stretching properly) for some time, half stunned by the sudden lack of oxygen, but half wowed by… by the feeling of floating? The rush, the incoherent existence, the lack of thought?

But for a minute there everything was right. Not because he believed, or felt any higher power. But because he _stopped thinking_ and he just did. And it hadn’t been perfect, but the awkward sense of disconnection with his flesh had, for that time, disappeared. He wasn’t 100% sure what he had done right but he _knew how it felt_ , which could certainly be reproduced.

  
And there would of course, be another next time.


End file.
